


Enemy of My Enemy

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Full Shift Werewolves, Injured Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, No Good Very Bad Language, Off-screen Character Death, Past Chris Argent/Stiles Silinski, Punk Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Tattooed Stiles, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Werewolves Outnumber Humans, Worldbuilding, anti-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles blinks hard.  He can’t argue that he’s not quite all there, a little woozier than he would like, but he’s done more difficult things a lot worse off.  The wolf didn’t know shit and Stiles sure as hell didn’t <i>need</i> him.  He huffs out a little laugh into his own chest, leaning back against the armrest and chin dropped to his sternum, head lolling slightly.  His eyelids are heavier than they were a minute ago.  “What makes you think I wouldn’t use the opportunity to gut you?  I hunt werewolves for sport, and so does everyone I have left.” </p>
<p>A careful claw tilts his chin up and it takes Stiles’ eyes a second to bring the face in front of him into stark relief.  “You can barely keep your eyes open,” the wolf says softly, “I don’t think you have the upper hand now, human.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemy of My Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Ha! Who remembered that I wrote things other than tumblr!fic? *fist pumps* It's cool, I almost forgot too. I have to mention Emeraldawn on this one, who back-and-forthed with me about this plot until it became sharp and clear and I could fucking _taste_ it and THEN she pre-read it and said it was awesome and amazing and I should shut up and stop doubting myself already. 477, barfbrain, 477. (Even though you wouldn't let me give Stiles a nose ring. Jerk.)
> 
> This is fairly _**dark**_ , so, if you have sensibilities - protect them. If that's what you do with sensibilities? I don't read enough Jane Austen to know off the top, honestly.
> 
> Written for the fullmoon_ficlet prompt: Calm before the Storm. I know this doesn't seeeem very calm but considering where it's going, it totally counts!
> 
> Also, this story now has art from the amazingly talented [thealphasspark](http://thealphasspark.com/)/[Shiny4Love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny4LoVe/pseuds/Shiny4LoVe). Rebloggable link [here](http://thealphasspark.com/post/104286571457/enemy-of-my-enemy-explicit-8040-words-sterek).

art by [thealphasspark](http://thealphasspark.com/)

 

Stiles hears it even over the grinding of the Jeep’s gears.  The howl seems to vibrate behind his ribcage, to taint the very air around him.  His hand tightens on the shotgun propped up between the front seats, wolfsbane bullets already loaded.  His tattoo  _constricts_  on his skin, magic pulsing through it and he shoves the teeming energy back down with a broken swallow.  It’s a call, a signal to its pack and however much Stiles hates those hounds of fucking hell, he knows better than to try to take on a whole pack of them on his own.

The hair on his forearms raises, skin prickling, and he gets slightly more  _alert_  than he has been through most of the godforsaken California backroads.  So long as he doesn’t draw attention to himself, he should be safe enough.  The wolves were far more interested in tearing up  _each other_  these days than terrorizing the random human.

At least that’s what he’d thought until he sees a man streak across the road, eyes only for what’s behind him, head twisted around and naked chest heaving.  Stiles slams on the brakes and into park, snatches up his shotgun, tumbles out of his seat, levels it with the butt firm against his shoulder all in the span of a few seconds and waits.  The wolf comes tearing after the guy not even a full minute after he’s blurred past and Stiles fires, catching the wolf in its hind quarters and hearing a whine.

Stiles steps up to it, smoothly pulls the handgun from the small of his back and shoots it once more.  This time right between the eyes, before it can howl for its pack.

There’s no way it was hunting alone but Stiles doesn’t know how thin they’ve spread themselves or if they’re all chasing the same prey.  It’s more likely though.  Humans were rare commodities so it’s likely that guy was the only one around for miles, likely they’ll all come barreling down this way.  And that guy might already be dead, might’ve run into another’s claws with how fast he was going. 

Stiles shouldn’t have stopped.  Should’ve left the guy to fend for himself.  He rubs shaky fingers over his forehead, brings a callused palm up to brush over the shaggy hair at the top of his head.  Stupid, stupid decision.  He looks from the dead wolf to squint into the headlights of his Jeep, door still thrown wide.  He starts the walk back over to it, the back of his neck going cold and teeth on edge.  It’s black out in those woods, so dark he can’t even make out the lines of the trees but he won’t run.  He won’t give them that. 

He makes his way over stiffly, hand tightening up over the shaft of his shotgun as he settles the pistol back into the waistband of his jeans, hidden under his shirts.  He bites his lip, lifts the shotgun so it’s a bar across his middle between his hands.  He stands behind the open door for a minute, plants his feet, levels the gun through the open window, butt against his shoulder and squints into the darkness.  If another wolf is coming, he doesn’t hear it.  He’s already stopped though, already decided it’s worth potentially dying to save another of his own kind, might as well make the most of it. 

He waits a quiet,  _primed_  five minutes, listens to the rustle of leaves, the tumbling travel of loose dirt, the scrambling sounds of small vermin scampering over branches.  If another thing comes after the guy, he’ll kill it first.

Finally –  _finally_  – he hears something big crashing through the undergrowth, but it’s coming from his right rather than his left this time. His finger firms up over the trigger and he narrows his eyes when the guy from before breaks out the other side.

He looks wild, eyes wide, and he has a hard time breaking out of his momentum, coming to more of a skidded stop.  He finds his feet, nostrils flaring, and looks back to the dead wolf.

Stiles’ tattoo  _buzzes_ like a swarm of flies under his skin and he steps forward, gun leveled at the guy’s head.

“You killed it,” he says dumbly, voice not even half as gruff as Stiles would’ve expected, especially now he knows.

Stiles snarls, has kept walking until the barrel of the gun is pressed to the guy’s bare shoulder.  “Kneel,” he spits.

The guy spins around and Stiles backs up a step despite himself.  His face goes slack, confused, and then his brows draw in together.  “ _What_.”

“No, see, that’s a  _question_ , gets its own special inflection or do they not bother to teach animals ‘bout that?”  The guy backs up and Stiles’ eyes narrow.  “You’re one of  _them_ ,” Stiles accuses, a dark shadow passing over his face.  His nostrils had flared over the blood, given him away, let Stiles know he was more instinct than logic.  “Get on your fucking knees.” 

The guy’s face starts to shift and Stiles has to kill him  _fast_  before he gets the upper hand.  Something collides into him just as he squeezes the trigger and he’s thrown off course.  The bullet smacks into something that is decidedly  _not_  the shirtless werewolf in front of him.  Somehow in the last few seconds that’s become the  _least_  of his concerns. 

Sharp teeth and hot, panting breaths are incredibly close to his neck and the weight slamming into him had dislodged the shotgun from his hands.  He’s trying to scramble back, away from the pointed,  _grinning_  fangs when the weight is abruptly torn away from him.  Shirtless wolf has distracted it, face in beta form and eyes gold.  The other’s are blue and he’s shifted to full wolf.

Stiles has no idea why the guy is helping him, maybe to square them.  He fucking  _gets_  debt at least and he’s pretty sure his was just repaid.  Can’t rely on the guy to do it again then.  He yanks the gun from the waistband of his jeans but the two wolves are locked together and he doesn’t want to shoot the wrong one. 

He shakes his head.  He shouldn’t give a shit which one he hits.  One less wolf either way.

The full wolf slams back into him as the shirtless one lands a good hit and Stiles has a moment to feel dazed.  The wolf isn’t.  It’s focused on Stiles in an instant and Stiles throws his head back and howls as claws sink into his thigh and pull all the way down to his knee.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  He puffs out a harsh breath, fumbles with the handgun in his hand, gets it up to the wolf’s head and pulls the trigger.  The blowback is messy and blood gets in his mouth and the fucker just collapses  _full weight_  on top of him, knocking his breath out, but Stiles is still alive.

He’s fucking alive.

He shoves the thing off him with a  _whump_.  He hobbles to his feet and it’s painful,  _beyond_  really.  He scrabbles back for the shotgun and uses it as a cane to help him stand.  He can’t rest any weight on his bad leg without it feeling like it’ll give out.  Blood’s practically  _gushing_ from it and he’s going to get dizzy soon if he doesn’t tie it off.

“Will you die?”

Stiles looks up to find the shirtless wolf nodding to his leg.  He looks entranced almost, scruffy face full of young wonder and no longer half-monstrous.  Stiles’ hand tightens on the butt of his shotgun where he’s still using it to prop himself up.  He doesn’t bother to answer, lurching back towards the Jeep, eyes closing, tears welling and teeth clenching over a hiss with nearly every jostling movement.

He feels a tentative hand touch his shoulder and he’s yanking the gun up into his hands, swinging it towards the wolf in the span of a heartbeat.  His weight automatically tries to evenly distribute and his injured leg buckles as he cries out.  He manages to stay standing, half-kneeling more like, and he growls in a broken voice, “ _Don’t_  touch me.” 

The wolf takes a step back, and another, hands raised.  His eyes are flittering from Stiles’ bent and bloody leg to his amber eyes to the spiral tapers in his ears.  They flick up to his half-shaved head, the purple shaggy faux hawk fade, then over his crystal blue tattoos.  Now he’s in the spill of his own headlights, they both are, and it feels too  _raw_  between them.  He’s never had to look one in the eyes this long.

The wolf in front of him has all the earmarks of a tough-looking were and yet there’s a strange vulnerability to him that comes from a lot more than the shirtlessness.  He’s got the shadow of a beard on his face, corded muscle on every plane of him, green eyes and wild dark hair.  He’s attractive as shit and Stiles might’ve even dragged him to the back of his Jeep and fucked him stupid if he were human and they’d met outside a protected bar. 

He’s a monster though, nothing more, a creature driven by instinct and Stiles figures his kindness  _barely_  extends far enough to leave it alive.  It certainly doesn’t stretch to include polite conversation.

The wolf flexes his jaw, sets it.  “You can barely make it back to your car like that.” 

“And that’s your fucking concern how?”  Stiles struggles to stand, can only do it by taking the gun off the wolf but he doesn’t think it means to attack him.  They’re fucking  _square_  after all.  The wolf makes towards him, like it wants to try to  _help_ again and Stiles bites out, “Back  _off_ , wolf.  You’re only alive because I made a mistake.  I thought you were  _human_.  I don’t know why in the hell you weren’t shifted to fight your kin and I don’t particularly care.  I’ll leave you here alive if you do the same.  Take another fucking  _step_  towards me though and I’ll shoot you in the goddamn head just like those two.” 

“They weren’t my kin.”

Stiles blinks back at him, thinks the wolf might be stupid, even for his kind.  He seems completely immune to Stiles’ attitude towards him, self-preservation instinct not half as strong as it should be. 

“They ran me and my family out of our territory, out of our home.  I was with my sister and we— _they_  separated us.  Before I realized it they’d run me so far that I had no idea how to find my way back, so far that I can’t catch so much as a whisper of my pack’s scent.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him.  “You can’t even imagine how many fucks I don’t give right now.  I hope they’re all fucking dead.  World’s better off.”

The wolf snarls, moves threateningly into his space and Stiles blanches before he can stop himself.  “My pack’s never hurt  _anyone_.  Human and werewolf alike.  We’ve never even left our own territory.”

Must be big then if they’d never had to search outside it, Stiles thinks.  Explains why another pack would target them at least, the way the wolves had been clashing with each other as habitable territory dwindled the more humans were turned, the larger the packs grew, the more the werewolves outnumbered them. 

Stiles turns his face away from the flare of gold and shrugs his shoulders, trying to hold his heartbeat steady, to not give away his fear.  “One dead wolf’s as good as the next.”  He turns back, squares his jaw, eyes hard.  “Go chase your monsters and get the fuck out of my face.” 

The wolf grabs him by the shoulder, squeezes so tightly that Stiles can practically  _feel_ the blood vessels bursting to form a lasting bruise.  “You didn’t shoot me,” he snarls into Stiles’ face, lips pulled back from his sharpened teeth.  “Means you don’t believe what you’re saying.”  He shoves Stiles hard enough that he loses his balance, falls back on his ass.  His leg gets awkwardly bent in the scuffle and he can’t help his shout of pain.

The wolf’s brow immediately furrows and he steps close, looking lost as to what to do, hands splayed confusedly at his sides.  “What did I—How bad is it?” 

Stiles’ head tilts slightly, watching the wolf steadily, and he confirms what Stiles is thinking a second later. 

“I’ve never—I’ve never met, never  _seen_  a human before.  I don’t know what—I’ve seen that show, my youngest sister watches it,  _Mortality Bites_?”  He swallows right before Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Sometimes, sometimes the humans die from wounds like this.”

Stiles knows of the show.  It portrays humans exactly as the wolves view them, as weak, as unequipped – mentally and physically, as a  _subspecies_.  But this wolf?  He almost sounded  _sad_  for them, and not because they were so pitiful, but because he’d gotten _attached_  to the characters.  Which all but confirmed Stiles’ suspicion that he was dealing with someone kind of dumb, even for a wolf.  He even looks worried  _now_.  About  _Stiles_.  Who  _keeps threatening to kill him_.

Stiles gets to his feet with a lot of grunted effort and gives the wolf a cock-eyed look.  “I’ll live.  I need to tie it off, stop it bleeding like a stuck pig.”

The wolf nods sharply, holds out a hand to him like they’ve just bonded over his shitty taste in TV. 

Stiles snorts, half-walks and half-drags himself over to the Jeep rather than touch the animal in front of him.

The wolf stubbornly follows him.  “You’ll need help, leg like that,” he says cautiously.  “And,” he jerks his chin off towards the woods at their side, “I’m sure they’re still circling, looking for me.  It’s in both of our best interests to stick together.”

Stiles actually chuckles, a breathy, choppy little sound that rumbles through his chest unfamiliarly.  The novelty is too fucking precious.  A wolf trying to use logic to reason with him when it’s nothing but baser urges and they both know it.  “I’m good, thanks.  I’d rather not have a thing with claws and teeth watching my back.”  His gaze flicks over to the scowling creature.  “Or my neck,” he adds pointedly.

The wolf looks away guiltily.  The way he’s been  _staring_  at Stiles is unsettling, like he’s fragile, made of tissue paper and might blow apart at any moment.

Stiles’ hand  _finally_ reaches the metal edge of his open car door and he drags himself backwards onto the seat, shrugging out of his plaid gracelessly and wrapping it  _tight_  around the wound.  It hurts like a motherfucker and his eyes well nearly to the point where his tears spill over but he’s not about to start sobbing in front of a werewolf.

“You’re too hurt to drive.”  The wolf steps close and Stiles’ eyes wrench open.  He smirks, eyes tracking Stiles’.  “Unfocused,” he notes, and maybe they are.  Stiles will deny it till he’s blue in the face anyway.  “You’ll veer off the road on your own.”

Stiles blinks hard.  He can’t argue that he’s not quite all there, a little woozier than he would like, but he’s done more difficult things a lot worse off.  The wolf didn’t know shit and Stiles sure as hell didn’t  _need_  him.  He huffs out a little laugh into his own chest, leaning back against the armrest and chin dropped to his sternum, head lolling slightly.  His eyelids are heavier than they were a minute ago.  “What makes you think I wouldn’t use the opportunity to gut you?  I hunt werewolves for sport, and so does everyone I have left.” 

A careful claw tilts his chin up and it takes Stiles’ eyes a second to bring the face in front of him into stark relief.  “You can barely keep your eyes open,” the wolf says softly, “I don’t think you have the upper hand now, human.” 

Stiles’ eyelids flutter and the sharp rejoinder on his tongue slides away, head growing fuzzy as he slips hard into unconsciousness.

* * *

A sharp pain lances through Stiles’ head, a jagged slice in the space behind his eyes and he hasn’t even gotten them open before a voice is saying, “I’m Derek, by the way.  Not that you asked.”

Stiles groans himself into sitting upright and it makes his head throb like he just headbanged with it.  He peels open his eyes slowly, sees nothing but a too bright flare of light illuminating dirt road and a rushing line of trees.  “Have you got my fucking brights on?  You’ll call every goddamn wolf right to us.”  Stiles’ mouth feels like cotton and he’s absently pressing the heel of his palm into the pulsing pain of his thigh, mind balking a bit over how easily his words had lumped them together – made them an ‘ _us_.’

His tattoos almost feel like they’re retreating from the torn wounds, slithering over his skin and the crow on his collarbone  _nips_  hard at his sternum.  He closes his eyes, rubbing at his chest, body all but rebelling against his own agony.  The bands of ink on his right forearm and down his middle finger  _squeeze_  like a boa constrictor.

He knows, okay.  He knows he shouldn’t have stopped, that he’s sitting next to a werewolf, he knows his fucking situation so his magic needs to just freaking chill already.  He pushes his thumb and index finger into his eyes, trying to blot out the spots of orange light behind his eyelids, but it only makes a prickling sensation start to tingle there, like he’s got a porcupine in his head and he’s pressing against it.  He can feel his pulse where his earlobes are stretched around the tapers.  They’re winding spirals, a loose corkscrew of opaque cyan that his brother had sworn made him look badass.  Stiles hasn’t changed them since he died.

“You’ve been out for over an hour,” the wolf— _Derek_  apparently, and it was still so fucking weird that these animals gave themselves names, playing human the way they were, says rather condescendingly, “There’s not a pack around for miles, including the one that was after me.”

Stiles grunts, showing he’ll accept that – at least for the time being.  “Where are we?”

Derek shrugs.  The name doesn’t fit him and Stiles has to force himself to use it.  “I don’t know this territory well, I’ve been following the same road you were.  No turn-offs to even choose from,” he adds at Stiles’ raised eyebrow.

Stiles tries to pull his thoughts together.  There’s a human compound near here if he’s remembering the maps right, and he needs the rest, the access to more expansive medical kits and the opportunity to part ways with Derek.  He glances over at him, kicks around the idea of not telling Derek anything, of whipping the handgun out from the small of his back and being done with the lot of this.  He could tell him to pull over, say he has to piss, shoot him quick and push him out onto the road and drive on.  It’d be easier than trying to sneak a wolf into one of the few purely human populations left.

Derek glances back.

Stiles sighs, holds fast to his leg.  He doesn’t think it’s bleeding anymore, hasn’t stopped it hurting any though.  “There’s a place, kind of a safe haven for humans.  You won’t be able to see it, let alone enter it, not like you are.”

Derek perks an eyebrow at him, expression flat, like he thinks Stiles is only saying so to get rid of him.

Stiles holds up his hand and the Jeep slows to a crawl as Derek focuses more and more of his attention on him, watching as the bands around his finger and then his forearm begin to fade like dispersing ripples.  It pushes up to the tips of his fingers, blue fire dancing over them and he says, voice croaky, “Stop the car.”

Derek does, watching him warily.

“Lean forward,” Stiles says, voice flat and no longer quite his own.  His eyes take on the ache of a burn and Stiles knows they’ll look iridescent in the dark between them.

Derek swallows and Stiles can practically see the moment he decides to trust him, leaning up against the steering wheel with his chest pressed flat to it.

Stiles uses his temperate, non-phosphorous hand to slide up the warm skin of his spine.  Derek shivers under him and Stiles reaches over with the hand that is burning bright and brands the sigil into his back, right between his shoulder blades.  It resembles an upside down hook and the harsh blue light fades together, on both Derek and Stiles’ skin.

Stiles slowly comes back to himself, voice still hoarse as he reaches into the back and drags up a dusty shirt, tossing it at Derek.  “Hide that as best you can.” 

Derek doesn’t make any move to catch it and it falls limply into his lap.  He’s blinking at Stiles now, flexing his shoulders and looking slightly shattered, nostrils flaring uselessly.  “What did you do to me?” he gets out, voice jagged and uneven.

Stiles shrugs.  “I locked you in,” he says easily.  “You’d never make it past the mountain ash line the way you were.  For all intents and purposes, you’re human until the sigil’s broken.”  Stiles smirks.  “I suggest you enjoy not being a freak while you can.”

“You  _will_  break it though?” Derek snarls at him, ignoring the jab while he pulls on Stiles’ t-shirt.  It’s tight on him but it covers the sigil.

“When the time comes, yeah.”  Stiles only considers leaving him like that for a half-second before he decides he doesn’t care enough to.  Doesn’t matter if Derek’s a wolf or a human, Stiles’ll still want him dead either way.  You can’t bury what you are, only subvert it for a while.

“Will they come back?” Derek asks, curiosity clearly piqued, gazing down at Stiles’ bare forearm and hand. 

Stiles shakes it, hiding it on the other side of his good thigh so Derek can’t see and says, “It’s not any of your fucking concern, is it?  We get to the camp and then we split, all right?  There’s a guy on the outskirts, Danny, opposite side of the way we’re coming, close to the ash line but not inside it.  Runs this shit motel, fancies himself a Neutral Good, y’know?”  The look on Derek’s face says he doesn’t know.  Stiles has no idea what the fuck an insulated pack of werewolves that’s never been outside its own territory does if it’s not playing Dungeons & Dragons for days on end.  “Whatever,” Stiles mutters.  “We walk straight through, get there and split.”

“Fine,” Derek says tightly and Stiles nods, clipped, feeling his breathing get a little more free now that the end is in sight for this shit association here. 

The compound’s not even a mile from where they’d stopped in the road and Stiles watches Derek’s eyes widen as they come upon it, taking in a whole community he never would’ve seen, scented or heard without that sigil.

“Do you all have magic?” he asks, breath catching in his throat. 

“Enough of us,” Stiles answers blandly.  He glances back at Derek.  The town’s nothing special really, looks like it was built for some fifties Western but Derek’s gazing at it like it’s fucking  _Tron_.  Makes Stiles want to really sink how much better humans are than wolves.  Despite the super strength and healing, they were still the lesser species.  “Some can learn it if they’ve got enough of a spark for it.  That’s what the tattoos are for.”  He holds his arm out, only the design above his elbows visible at the moment.  “But it doesn’t come as naturally for us.  The patterns, they help us control how much we use, how forceful it should be and the like.”  He shrugs.  “The more tattoos, the more power you’re looking to access.” 

Stiles had seen guys who didn’t have an inch of bare skin left at some camps.  He’d only had his middle finger done for years and then he’d watched his dad die.  Now maybe about sixty percent of him was inked.

“They don’t mention that on the show,” Derek mutters under his breath while Stiles rolls his eyes. 

Stiles makes him stop the Jeep a few yards from the mountain ash line so they won’t disturb it and carefully edges himself out of the car.  His leg isn’t good, still can’t really bear weight and Derek’s at his side, offering his shoulder, before he can even step out.  Stiles shoves him away, limps to the trunk and pulls out a lacrosse stick from another life to use as a crutch.  It’s going to hurt like a bitch but it’s better than relying on a werewolf to support him. 

Derek doesn’t look all that bothered that his help has been rebuffed, he’s too busy being amazed when he steps over the ash without issue.

Stiles stops him with a hand on his breastbone, wobbling with the effort of getting in front of him so he could head him off.  “You need to cut it out with the wolf shit.”  Derek’s eyes widen, mouth opening to protest and Stiles cuts him off.  “The way your nostrils keep flaring, the way your head tilts to listen rather than twisting around to  _see_ , how you’ve got more of a stalk than a walk – all of ‘em are dead giveaways.  These guys, these girls out here,” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “they’re fucking trained to notice shit like that.  They’ve been hunting you fucks most their lives and they know what to look for.  You need to bury every subhuman instinct you’ve got.  I’ve made it so you can’t shift, you’re the only one who can make it so you don’t scream ‘werewolf.’”

With that, Stiles turns on his heel and makes for the camp’s light, hoping that’s enough of a warning that Derek won’t get them both killed.  All they have to do is make it from one side of the camp to the other, step over the line for Danny’s and then they can part ways.  Easy enough. 

“Stiles!”

Stiles freezes, shoulders hunching up and he turns his head.  Chris Argent is striding over to him, eyes dancing as he takes him in and Stiles feels some of his rigidity ease.  He’d rather not’ve been stopped but Chris is the best of a bad situation.  His eyes are already crinkled at the sides and they flick up to Stiles’ hair.  Chris drags his knuckles over a shaved side of it, threads his fingers into the shaggy top and tugs.  “Violet’s a good look on you,” he says in that soft-harshness of his rasp.  “Matches your back if I’m remembering right.”

The intense look on his face says he more than remembers.  There are two lilac cones on Stiles’ back, curving and twisting around each other on either side of his spine, one a pale purple and the other an even paler pink.  He’s about to flirt back when Chris’ daughter catches up, crossbow in hand.

Stiles has always felt a certain connection to Allison, s’like all the humanity’s been burned out of her too, more  _ruthless_  than person.  Stiles had been there when her mother’d been killed, had watched her skewer the wolf that’d done it, had fucked Chris for the first time in the back of his SUV that night.  He hadn’t seen either one of them in something like half a year.

Allison’s eyes narrow on Derek, fingers tightening up on her bow.  “Who’s your friend?”

Stiles barely glances back to him, not wanting to ring any sort of alarm bell with either of them.  “Met him on the road, running from a pack of weres that had it in for him.”

Chris chuckles lowly, mostly to himself.  “Did you even bother to catch his name?”

Stiles shrugs and now he does look back at Derek, smirks somewhat cruelly.  “I don’t need a name to let him fuck me into next week.”  He sees both Allison and Chris relax in his periphery, Allison losing interest with a roll of her eyes and Chris looking amused.  It’s the simplest explanation for why Stiles would’ve let him hitch.  He’s barely twenty and with the libido of someone a few years younger and Derek looks like he could make a career off his face and chest and ass.

It would’ve been even more plausible if Derek hadn’t choked on his own spit at the declaration but it’s not enough to throw it.  Stiles is blunt and it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that this would’ve been precisely the way he would’ve chosen to broach the subject of fucking with Derek.  He decides to further distract the Argents from Derek’s reaction just in case.  “You got any wolfsbane shotgun shells?  Used a few on the road to save his sorry ass,” he jerks his head towards Derek, forgetting how painful that’s going to be on it, “I’d like to stock up while I’ve got the chance.”

Chris nods, takes Stiles’ arm over his shoulder and walks them back to his camp while Derek trails a good distance behind them.  Smarter than Stiles thought he was then.  Chris tells him about what he and Allison had got up to in Oregon while she silently scans the camp at their sides.

Stiles glances over at her.  Honestly, out of all of ‘em here, Allison makes the most sense to him.  He has to bite down on his tongue to keep from offering up Derek as some sort of bonding kill.  He  _likes_  seeing her finish them though.  She’s just as dead inside as Stiles when she does it.

Chris parts a set of curtains and eases Stiles down carefully on top a hard, hollow bench once they’re inside.  He comes back with a box of shells and a first-aid kid before Stiles can even get edgy.

Chris’ fingers gently probe the wrapped plaid and Stiles bites his lower lip as he starts to untie it.  Derek takes a step closer and his head tilts to the side, too angled to be mistaken for a human gesture.  Stiles sees Allison’s eyes narrow in his periphery and he kicks hard against the bottom of the trunk with his heel, creating a loud  _bang_  as he connects with the hollow chest.  “Fuck, Chris, we’re looking to make it better not worse, yeah?”

Allison snorts, mutters, “Wuss.”  But her eyes are back on Stiles.

Stiles shoots Derek a dark look as soon as both the Argents are focused on his leg.  There’s a neon vine climbing up it, twisting around it, flowers of every color blooming on the skin that hasn’t been torn away.  Derek’s arms cross over his chest and he looks away uneasily.  “How much do I owe you?” Stiles asks, nodding to the box of bullets, mainly to distract himself from Chris unsticking the cloth from where it’s fused to the open cuts.

“Nothing,” Chris says blankly, as though he was hardly listening.  He stares down at the wound clinically, licks his lip.  “Deeper than I expected the way you were limping around.”  He glances back over his shoulder at Allison.  There’s a silent communication between the two before she leaves the room.  “This is going to hurt,” Chris warns him before he pours what feels like an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol on Stiles’ leg.

Stiles twists in his seat, bites the tip of his tongue hard enough it bleeds, but he manages not to yank away.  His eyes are closed, missing the handoff of a staple gun between Chris and Allison, only noticing the shiny tool when Chris says, “And this is going to hurt worse.”

Derek almost snarls but turns it into more of a break in his voice to get out, “That can’t be necessary.”  The rumble’s still obvious though.

Stiles latches onto Chris’ forearm to get his attention off Derek and grits out, “Do it quick.”

Chris nods once, sharply, poises the gun against the open split in his thigh muscle.

Stiles’ screams scrape his throat raw but it’s over in two minutes and Chris wraps it in clean gauze with careful fingers.  “You’ll live,” he says with a quirk to his lips.

Stiles rolls his eyes, hobbles to his feet and Derek is there in an instant, taking his arm to steady him.  Stiles can’t shake him off in front of Allison or Chris without raising suspicion.  The determination in Derek’s face makes him think he might not have been able to even if he’d  _had_  the opportunity to try. 

Stiles offers Chris a one-armed hug and a nod of solidarity to Allison, which is returned, before Derek is helping him out.  “How far?” he asks, voice tight, pained.

Stiles squints into the dark, points off into the distance.  “See the green neon?”

Derek dips his chin, holding even more firmly to Stiles, arm slipping down around his waist as though he knows Stiles is going to try to push him away the second they’re out of sight of the Argents.  Thankfully no one else recognizes Stiles or, if they do, they keep it to themselves.

They’ve barely set foot on the other side of the ash line when Derek turns to him and says with gruff command, “Break the sigil.” 

Stiles eyes him, considers telling him to fuck off but he can guess what it’s like for Derek, like he’s suddenly lost a sense and that’s definitely something no one wants to live with longer than they have to.  He looks pointedly to the shadowy side of the motel and Derek helps him over to it, already fumbling up his shirt.  Stiles drags a nail through the blue ink, breaking the magic and watching it pour back into him, rings dropping onto his arm and finger like they’re milk bottles at a county fair. 

Derek’s nostrils immediately flare as he inhales deeply and Stiles says with dry sarcasm, “Be  _less_  subtle.” 

Derek ignores him and Stiles hobbles off the wall and up the ramp to the entrance of the motel, the green neon casting a strange glow over his skin.  “Stilinski,” Danny greets from behind the counter, grinning but something dark in his face.  Stiles has always gotten the feeling Danny doesn’t like him much even though Stiles has got nothing against him.  “Didn’t expect to see you.”

Stiles shrugs, watches Danny’s eyes flit to what must be Derek coming in behind him.  “Two rooms if you’ve got ‘em.”  Stiles has no idea if Derek means to stay, doesn’t particularly care, so long as it means they’re done sharing space.  This was as far as they had to get and now they can go their separate ways.  Stiles is sure he’s grinning like a doofus over it, leaning against the counter and watching Danny check a monitor the size of a footstool for vacancies. 

He feels a warm hand slide over his cool skin, settle in the small of his back.  He’s about to snap something sharp at Derek when the pain in his head, his leg, his very  _soul_  bleeds out of him like someone’s emptying out every bad feeling he’s ever had.

He nearly goes boneless, sinking into the countertop but he shakes himself out of it when Danny turns. 

He sets one key, huge number nine on the metal ring on the counter, and smirks.  Stiles blinks down at it.  “I said two.”  It doesn’t even sound upset, he  _can’t_  make himself sound upset when he feels so fucking  _good_. 

Danny’s eyebrows raise.  “Yeah, but you  _meant_  one,” he says smartly, eyes sliding between the two of them and Stiles is too confused, too relaxed, to argue it. 

Derek keeps his hand on him as Stiles leads them down the hall.  He waits until they’re both inside room number nine to whirl around and slam Derek up against the door.  The pain crashes back in with the force of a wrecking ball and he nearly doubles over, snarling, “What  _the fuck_  did you just do to me?” 

Derek lifts his hand, eyes dancing, and places it on Stiles’ hip, under his shirt.  Stiles watches as Derek’s veins flood black as tar, Stiles’ own darkness sluggishly moving under Derek’s skin.

Stiles’ jaw drops.  It’s not possible and if it  _was_  possible, Derek sure as hell wouldn’t be offering this to  _him_.

The hand shifts to the small of his back again, tugs him closer until he’s straddling Derek’s thigh.  Derek starts walking them back towards the bed, Stiles’ soft cock brushing hard muscle, wanting to perk up.  They’re too close, Derek’s eyelashes practically brushing Stiles’ cheek and their chests keep bumping.  Derek keeps a firm grip on him even as Stiles awkwardly finds a way to lay on his side, bad leg up. 

Derek settles in much the same position and there’s nothing to do but stare at each other and nothing Stiles wants to do  _less_. 

Stiles swallows as Derek reaches behind himself with his free hand to switch on the lamp.  It’s a low wattage, bathes a slice of the room a dull orange.  “Let go of me.”

Derek turns back to him, smirking like he’s won something.  “You don’t want me to do that.”  His hand firms up against Stiles’ back. 

“How are you doing this?” Stiles hisses.  It’s insidious, it has to be, and yet Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever felt this  _good_ in his entire life. 

Some of the cruelness in Derek’s expression leaves him and he looks softer, easier.  “Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

For a second Stiles wonders how the fuck the wolf knows his name and then he remembers that Chris said it, that Danny said his last name, that Derek can find him again.  Whenever he wants.  That’s so fucking far from okay.  He’s opening his mouth to threaten Derek, that sister he mentioned too, when his eyes slide out of focus and the day catches up to him with all the gentility of a freight train.  He’s asleep before he can think better of it.

* * *

Something is skittering over Stiles’ forearm, rustling the fine hair, climbing up him.  Sleep-clumsy fingers fumble with the knife in the sheath on his belt and Stiles uses the momentum of his roll to swing his arm down hard.  The blade slices into the shape next to him with a squelching  _thump_  and his fist knocks into solid chest.

The wolf in the bed with him roars, eyes flaring up gold in the orange light and Stiles scrambles back automatically, the heel of his palm nearly skidding off the mattress completely while his chest  _heaves_  with his panic.  He watches the thing tear the knife from its chest and throw it across the room from over the splay of his own thighs, his bad one throbbing incessantly, and he starts— _laughing_.  His breaths come in sharp, hitching, the air sweeping in too cool and stinging the back of his throat but Stiles still can’t stop.

“This is fucking funny to you?” Derek growls and Stiles has never heard his voice go that low, that foreboding, and it just makes him laugh harder with these gulping, painful half-breaths.

Stiles swipes at his eyes, they’re stinging cold with tears, making the beginning pinpricks of a headache needle at his temples.  He guffaws loudly.  “Oh suck it the fuck up, wimpwolf.  It was the equivalent of a pocket knife.  Serves you fucking right too, molesting me in my sleep.”

Stiles flops back onto the mattress, laughter having died down to irregular chuckles.  He settles his head onto the flat pillow, rubs the shaggy top of his hair against the linen, angles his ears away from getting awkwardly pressed and yawns.

Derek carefully lays back down too.  There’s a hole and blood all around it in the shirt Stiles loaned him but the cut’s already healed and it was worth the laugh.  Stiles hadn’t even liked that shirt much anyway.  The light’s still on, neither one of them having turned it off before they passed out and it’s all too easy to see Derek’s eyes drop down to Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles is distracted by it still when he feels the splay of Derek’s hand on the small of his back and he’s tugged close as his head goes fuzzy with nothing more than good-feelings.  He swallows, Derek staring far too intently at him and then his lower lip is catching on Stiles’ upper one as he brushes them together.  Stiles jerks back but not away, not willing to give up the pain relief he’s experiencing.  It’s better than the best morphine and about a thousand times more addictive. 

Derek smirks like he knows it too, leans in more deliberately, unhurried, and brushes their lips together again.  It’s barely a dip of his head, not even a bit of pressure behind the press of his mouth.  He does it again, a touch of their lips, and pulls back.  Again, a tease of a kiss, and again until Stiles wraps up his fingers in the back of Derek’s hair and slams him forward onto Stiles’ mouth.

They kiss messily, sloppily, more tongues and teeth than strictly warranted and Stiles’ hands dragging all over Derek’s skin, squeezing, pressing, tugging, pulling Derek into him and the roll of his body.  Only careful enough not to try to move his leg  **–**  he can’t feel the pain of it but he knows that doesn’t mean he can’t make it worse – but otherwise with no concern but trying to sex Derek through his clothes.

Derek switches out his hand, the right leaving the small of Stiles’ back to be replaced by his left and he lets his newly freed fingers brush the front of Stiles’ jeans, Stiles’ dick straining to meet him.  Stiles grabs him by the wrist, shoves Derek’s hand back into his own abdomen and hisses, “Don’t.”

Derek stares straight into Stiles’ furious eyes and uses his strength to overpower Stiles’ grip, bringing his hand right back to where it was, fingers caressing the head of Stiles’ cock.  Stiles’ hand is still wrapped around Derek’s wrist and he bites into it as hard as he can with his nails.  They’re locked in a staring match, Derek touching his dick and crescent moons carving into Derek’s skin as deep as Stiles can make them.

Derek’s hand flattens, palm brushing down the length of him and cupping Stiles’ balls through his jeans.  Stiles gasps, bucking into him, and just like that he’s using his grip to drag Derek’s hand closer rather than hold it at bay.

He lets go completely and Derek’s hand is in his pants in half a second, fist wrapping around him and jerking him off dry, Derek’s cock rubbing against Stiles’ hip.

It’s embarrassingly short for both of them.  Stiles comes first, easily, jeans not even unbuttoned and Derek shoots off against his hip still fully clothed not even a minute later.

Stiles pushes him off and Derek starts, “I have to have contact with you to—”

“I don’t give a shit,” Stiles snarls back at him, shoving Derek away until they’re no longer even incidentally touching.  “Get off me.”  The pain slams back in and Stiles rolls onto his back, stretches his leg out carefully.  His breathing’s harsh, chest rising and falling rapidly and he can’t believe he just got off with a  _thing_  he despises.   _He’s_  the fucking tainted one now.

Derek swallows, props himself up on his elbow and looks down at him.  Stiles won’t look back, horrified eyes on the ceiling.  “Let me come with you.”

Stiles’ eyes snap back to him in disbelief and disgust.  “Like fucking hell,” he chokes out.  “I don’t know what the fuck that was,” he gestures between them, “aside from momentary insanity but it’s not happening again.”  He perks an eyebrow at Derek, genuinely confused, mostly repulsed.  “I don’t even understand why you’d  _want_  it to.” 

Derek’s answering smile is small and soft, and slightly dark.  “I’ve always been told that humans are breakable, impotent, weak, that wolves were superior to them in every way.  But look at my pack, hiding out in the same territory for  _decades_.  You’re braver than all of them, stood up to what they feared most when it barely concerned you and with hardly so much as a tremor of fear.  More than that, you’re tenacious, terrifying, uncompromising, strong as hell.  I watched you get your skin  _stapled_  back together tonight and you stayed conscious, even watched the metal go in.  I’ve never met  _anything_  like you before.”  He presses his thumb to the crease of Stiles’ mouth, drags it down over his lower lip.  “I can feel my pack even if I don’t know where they are.  I know they’re safe at least and they know I am and I don’t want to go back to sheltering myself in the woods, hiding from even the potential of a threat.  Not now that I’ve seen what it looks like to stand up to one.”

Stiles’ tongue flicks out to wet his lips, catches the tip of Derek’s thumb and he pulls away before he can give into the impulse to suck it.  “I hate your kind,” he snarls.  His eyes squint and he leans in, pushing up Derek’s upper lip so he can press his index finger to the hint of a fang.  “And traveling with you—it’d be stupidly dangerous.”  He flicks off the tooth, blood welling up as the sharp point breaks his skin.  He holds it up like it’s proof of what he’s saying.

Derek grins, wolfishly.  He drags Stiles in by the small of his back, which is apparently Derek’s favorite place to splay his hand on him, and pulls him into his hips.  His fangs trail down Stiles’ neck, hover over the thin skin with points digging in slightly, while Stiles pants and bares the curve of it against his better judgment, turned on more than he has any right to be.  Derek breathes out, hot breath against fragile flesh, “Let me show you how dangerous I can be.”

Stiles fits their bodies together, already starting to plump up against Derek’s thigh again and he rolls his hips with a slow stick-drag before he realizes himself and gets some distance between them.  “ _Fuck_.  No, I am not compromising everything I  _am_  for a few fucks.” 

Derek doesn’t let up but he does change tactics.  “I know the boundaries of every territory in the country,” he says, eyes gauging, “I know every Alpha inside of those territories.  I’d be nothing but an asset to you.”

Stiles freezes, gaze tracking Derek’s face.  He’s telling the truth.  “Deucalion.”  The word almost sounds like it’s dragged up from the depths of his very being.  “You know where Deucalion is?”

Derek nods carefully, clearly wary of where this is going. 

Stiles smirks nastily and this time it’s him grabbing at Derek.  “You’re going to come with me,” he says with finality.  He spreads his legs, tattoos warming against his skin as he drags Derek on top of him, grabs his ass and helps him  _grind_  down onto Stiles’ cock.  “You’re going to  _come_  with me,” he emphasizes and Derek groans, drops his forehead down onto Stiles’ shoulder.  Stiles’ fingers reach up into his damp hair, hold him there as he whispers, “And you’re going to help me kill him.”

Derek’s head snaps up, eyes narrow.  “Why?” 

Stiles’ smirk grows.  Vengeance like he hasn’t felt in years surging through every fiber of his being.  “Because he gutted my father in front of me,” he says, still whispering, “Because he bit my brother.  Because he deserves to have  _so much worse_  happen to him.”

Derek holds the fire in his gaze for a long moment and then his hips pick up again and his answer is one word: 

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still deciding if I want to leave this here for you to let your imagination flourish, to mentally plot all the twists and turns you most desperately desire yourselves, or if I want to _strangle_ your imagination and replace it with mine. I'm leaning towards the violent one. *slick grins*
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). It was a _great_ life decision, okay.


End file.
